Now, apparently, travel had lost its allure. He was back home — if the impersonal accommodations of a hotel can be called home.
His suite was in the tower, sufficiently opulent but lacking warmth. I had identified myself on the house phone and he consented to see me. He came affably to the door, a slightly built man with mild eyes and a firm handshake. He had reddish hair and a neatly trimmed imperial of the same color.
“Glad to meet you, counselor,” he said, convoying me to a chair with a companionable hand on my shoulder. “Read about you in the morning paper. Frightful experience, I gather. Gave me something of a shock, too. Why, I spoke to that man myself only yesterday. Liked him on sight. Very decent sort. Good manners, forthright. Came to inquire about his uncle who used to work for me. What do you drink? Brandy? Scotch? Absinthe? Call down for anything you like. Take only a moment.”
“Nothing, thank you,” I said.
“Smoke? Here, try one of these. Made especially for me in Cuba.” He shoved a box of long Havana fillers under my nose. They were fragrant and fresh. “Take a couple, counselor. Go ahead. Help yourself.”
I selected one and put it in my pocket. He took one for himself, trimmed the end, and got it ignited. Smoke poured luxuriously from his nostrils.
I said, “The police are checking Eddie Lang’s movements. Have you notified them he was here?”
Expensive dental work appeared in a lame smile. “Quite frankly, I did not. I saw no connection between the two events.” A slight frown drew his eyebrows together. “Incidentally, Mr. Jordan, what brought you to me? How did you know Eddie Lang was here?”
I told him and asked, “What news did you give him about his uncle?”
The bearded face went long and solemn. “I told him that Victor was dead.”
“Dead?”
“Quite.” Malcolm Parish nodded sadly. “Victor died about a year ago. We had just taken a trip to Italy, flew over the Alps. It may have been the altitude, I don’t know. Victor’s heart was never strong. He suffered a severe thrombosis shortly after we reached a small villa I had rented for the season, and he was gone in a matter of minutes. In the twinkling of an eye, you might say. Before I could summon a doctor.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you notify anybody?”
“Of course, the local consul. Victor was buried in the town cemetery.”
“I mean relatives.”
“Well, now, the fact is I didn’t even know Victor had relatives. He never mentioned his nephew and I didn’t even know Eddie Lang existed. I was under the impression Victor was alone in the world.” Parish shook his head mournfully. “Missed the man dreadfully at first. He ran my household efficiently and played chess like a master. Absolutely irreplaceable.”
“How did Eddie take the news?”
“Rather badly, I’m afraid. He seemed genuinely affected. But he shook it off nicely and after a while we had a fine chat. He told me all about his work and that little girl, Gladys Monroe. Meant to catch his act this evening and take them out afterwards. I’d like to know who killed him. Any ideas?”
“Not yet. We’re working on it.”
He blew smoke at the ceiling. It hung over his head in a disembodied cloud. “I understand you did some work recently for the Parish Lines, Mr. Jordan.”
“It was more in the nature of an investigation,” I told him.
“Investigation? Are you a detective, too?”
“Not officially, but I’ve had some luck in the field.”
He sat up. “Well, now, I’m interested, counselor. What sort of an investigation?”
“Sorry. It was confidential.”
He smiled patronizingly. “Come now. In a manner of speaking, you might say that I am the company, since I hold the largest block of stock.”
“True.” I smiled back. “But I was hired by the Board of Directors.”
“Who, in the last analysis, represent me.”
“Unquestionably. So I imagine they’d be glad to show you the files.”
He coughed up smoke in a hearty laugh and slapped his knee. “I like that. I do indeed. It isn’t often one meets a man of prudence and discretion. I like you, counselor. I like you very much.” He closed his mouth and stared at me intently for a moment. “Are you still under retainer to the company?”
I shook my head.
“Would you care to represent me, personally?”
“To do what?”
“To help me accomplish what I came back to the States for.”
“Which is?”
“Namely, to vacate the trust set up by my grandfather and have it declared a nullity.” He struck his knee with a clenched fist. His lips were grim and his eyes glowing. “To wrest control of my own company from its present Board of Directors. To manage and pilot the destinies of the Parish Shipping Lines. I’m not at all pleased with the way things are going. We live in an expanding economy, Mr. Jordan, and the Parish Lines should have grown to twice its present size. Instead, the company is virtually at a standstill.” His beard quivered with indignation. “The directors have been sitting on their rumps, riding the crest.” The fist landed on his knee again. “I’m not going to stand by as an idle spectator and watch the company become atrophied. I’m going to take a hand.”
He bounced out of his chair and went to a desk. He turned holding a checkbook in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. His jaw was set with determination.
“I need the services of a fighting lawyer, Jordan. I like the cut of your cloth. You look like a scrapper. Name your retainer. Go ahead. I won’t haggle about the fee.”
I sat blinking. His enthusiasm and eloquence surprised me. At last I said, “Ten thousand dollars,” just to test his sincerity.
He wrote without batting a lash. He folded the check and tucked it into my pocket behind the display handkerchief.
I said cautiously, “Your grandfather’s trust may be irrevocable. I can’t promise a thing.”
He waved it aside, his mouth obstinate. “Win or lose, my mind is made up. I’m going to the mat with those boys and I want you in my corner. What’s ten thousand dollars? Peanuts, counselor. The company is worth millions.”
This was the first time my services had been courted with such enthusiasm. “I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Parish,” I said, rising. “As soon as I can read through the trust documents.”
“Fine. Just remember, time is of the essence. We’ve got to start rolling.”
After twenty years of indolence he was suddenly in a hurry.
I stopped off at a phone booth and arranged an adjournment of the case on this morning’s calendar.
I placed Malcolm Parish’s cigar on the desk in front of Lieutenant John Nola. He sniffed at it and raised an eyebrow at me. “What’s this, a bribe?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to know if you’ve made any progress.”
His face was lined and tired. “Very little.”
“How about Gladys Monroe?”
“Business associate, that’s all.”
“I saw her this morning.” He stared at me, and I went on telling him about Malcolm Parish.
He mulled it over. “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Yet. Did you check Eddie Lang’s room?”
“With a magnifying glass. Combed the place thoroughly. No clues.”
“Mind if I go over and take a look?”
“Why?” His inspection was critical. “You got better eyesight than we have?”
“No, John, I don’t mean that at all, but I’ve been mixed up in a lot of matters and there’s always a chance something may click. It can’t hurt and it may do some good.”